hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2004-03-09 01:13 pm
hackthis_archive) wrote2004-03-09 01:13 pm
LOTRips – Everyone is a Frustrated Something
Fuck me. It’s happy fic.
LOTRips
DM & BB
Everyone is a Frustrated Something
Dom’s pen frantically scrapes across the glossy pages of the magazine as though it might catch on fire if he can’t get his thoughts out fast enough. His journal is in his rucksack, at his feet, but he can’t be arsed to bend over and look for it, so instead he keeps scrawling all over the advert in the magazine with his blue Sharpie.
The pages crackle as he flips them over and over, looking for more space in which to pour out his thoughts. A momentary lapse of concentration and his ideas could be gone for good, but he lingers momentarily over an advert for Tanqueray and another for a Mini Cooper before getting back into the flow.
In Dominic’s mind he can solve world hunger and bring peace to nations. A flick of his wrist will save the forests. His words can slay wardrobe and make-up girls with a single joke, and his pen can right all the wrongs and say all the things that refuse to come out at the right time for the right people. When Dom’s writing, all his frustrations can be slayed with the tip of a ballpoint pen.
“Are you writing dirty limericks in magazines again?”
Even as the smile plasters itself on his face, Dom’s arm covers up the words on the page. “What d’you want, hobbit?” he attempts Bean’s Sheffield brogue and winds up sounding like he took a wrong turn in Liverpool.
Billy’s lips twitch in amusement. “Not bad –- you don’t sound so much like Michael Owen anymore.”
“Oi!”
This time Billy can’t help laughing. “So, what’re you doing, then?” he asks, sitting down across from Dom and attempting to get a look under Dom’s arm.
“I’m writing the greatest story ever told,” Dom declares, dragging the magazine across the table with his elbow.
Billy smirks. “I thought Winnie the Pooh’d already been written.”
Dom only throws his pen at Billy because he knows his moment is gone, which always tends to be the problem with writing: once it’s done; it’s done.
*
Dom has so much potential. He could be anything he wants to be. He could be a journalist or an environmentalist or one of those blokes who spends his life collecting stamps. He could if he were ‘independently wealthy’ at any rate, but he’d probably be horribly insufferable if he were that rich, and Dom doesn’t necessarily need to have five flash cars. One will suit him just fine. And season passes to Old Trafford, too. And he needs to be famous. Or he needs to put on more sun lotion.
It’s a bit hard for him to figure out quite what he needs or who he could be with the sun beating down on the nape of his neck and the sweat plastering his shirt to his back.
He shifts his left leg in the lotus and goes back to waiting. It could happen any minute now, and he’d be loathe to miss it after waiting all afternoon. He’s only been watching for four hours; that’s nothing. Of course, most people would spend their day off sleeping, but Dom’s not most people otherwise he’d miss the soft footfalls that announce the pending arrival.
“Your neck’s gone all red.” Billy’s voice is better than balm, and Dom blinks behind his sunglasses and sees neon spots. He shoves over a bit when Billy drops down in the grass next to him.
Out the corner of his eye, Dom studies Billy’s profile. The sun overhead makes his hair absurdly blonde, and his eyelashes are spiders crawling over his cheeks.
“So -- what’re we doing?” Billy asks after several seconds have passed.
Dom turns back to the deserted road a dozen metres from the grass. “Counting blue cars.”
Billy’s silence says it all.
“It’s supposed to be a soothing exercise,” Dom explains. “You free your mind by focusing on other things.”
Billy makes a noncommittal noise. “How many have you seen then?”
“Two.”
Dom squints. There’s something in the distance.
“Two,” Billy repeats. “How long have you been at it?”
“Four hours.”
“Four hours, Dom?” The tone of Billy’s voice says it all, and Dom pushes him over before the obvious comments can be made. Billy’s laughter only serves to goad Dom into action, and he springs onto Billy like a sugar-addled five-year-old.
Billy’s terribly ticklish, and Dom can’t help but take advantage.
“I expect it works better if you’re not on location on in the middle of New Zealand,” Billy gasps out as Dom’s fingers poke and prod and seek out the sensitive spots.
“Shut it, smart arse,” Dom says petulantly.
“Maybe you should try sheep instead.”
*
In Dom’s brain, his actions make the sort of sense that most people don’t understand. Not that he minds that much, after all, it is his brain. His very drunken brain. It’s not every day that he thinks his brain is being pickled by the fumes coming from his liver. Or something. It’s all connected on the inside. Like everything on Earth is all connected together in that lovely way. It’s nature is what it is, and Dom’s going to tell Billy so right now. As soon as he can focus his vision.
It’s a long walk back from the pub.
“Dom, why are you cuddling the tree?”
“Because trees are our friends.”
Billy’s voice is very soothing in Dom’s ear as he attempts to unwrap him from the tree. “Are they now?”
“Course they are. Trees and people should be best mates. Like you and me. Like Sean and Elijah. Like… like the King and his sword. People who need people are um, bollocks, what was I saying about trees?”
The shake of Billy’s head says it all. “Environmentalists.”
*
There are loads of things that Dom’s good at. He’s good at writing in his journal and writing all over his body without the aid of a mirror. He’s quite good at cooking and making those fried onion rings that Billy loves so much. Dom’s a good friend and good son. He’s not a half bad actor, if Patricia and Fran are to be believed, and he makes a point of trying to give his attention to whatever he’s doing at the time. But these are things that Dom’s just good at.
There’s nothing he can do the way Billy can sing.
Billy’s voice fills the sitting room whilst Dom prepares fish and chips in the kitchen, and the deep, richness of the lyrics seeps into the kitchen where Dom’s not paying attention to the hot oil on the stove. Billy’s voice is beautiful and heart-breaking, and Dom wants to write in his journal about it. He wants to bottle how it makes him feel and keep it on the end table next to his bed for when everything’s gone pear-shaped.
Dom never wants Billy to stop singing.
Dom wants –- a lot of things, and the frustration that’s been building for as long as Dom can remember causes him to drop things all over the floor, and he's on his knees wiping up the flour when Billy comes in.
“You alright down there?” he asks.
“Just looking for the rest of my brain,” Dom says.
Billy’s crouching down to eye level while Dom’s still filtering out the last of the music in his head, and the greenness of Billy’s eyes makes Dom think of algae and moss and all sorts of nature-related things.
“You’re never going to stop singing, are you?” Dom asks.
“I didn’t think it was that bad.” Billy’s smile is alive and dangerous, and Dom wants to touch it. He wants to protect it and put it in its own ecosystem.
“No, I meant promise me you won’t stop singing?” Dom’s hands are coated with flour and all he wants to do is trace Billy’s mouth. He wants to write all over Billy’s body in black Sharpie. “There are all these things I can’t do. But you, Bills, you’ve got this thing, you shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
Billy’s smile falters when he realises how serious Dom is, and the confusion that flitters across his face makes Dom’s stomach hurt. “What’re you on about, Dom?”
“You sing, and when you sing it’s like everything I can’t do or save or write down doesn’t matter, because you’ve got this voice... and I’ve completely lost the plot. Sorry about that.”
Dom scrambles to his feet leaving Billy still crouching on the floor.
“Do you want to sing?” Billy asks looking up.
“Yes. No. I can,” Dom says. “Sort of. I just. It’s frustrating – everything is frustrating. Writing. Yoga. Inner peace and all that shite. Wanting you. It’s all frustrating.”
“Wanting me is frustrating,” Billy says, getting to his feet. “Why? It doesn’t have to be.”
And there are these explanations that Dom has and things he wants to say, but they all slip away when Billy’s fingers hook into his belt loops and pull him forward. Billy’s lips are dry, but his mouth is wet and hot, and kissing Billy is like a million blue cars racing by and the perfect journal entry where Dom doesn’t forget anything at all.
Everything seeps away when confronted with sharp teeth and digging fingernails and probing tongues, and when Billy pulls away Dom’s mouth clamps shut as though he’s run out of things he’ll ever want.
“Less frustrated now?" Billy asks. All Dom can do is nod.
Finally there’s something that comes easily enough.
-end-
Improv: onion, batter, blank, crackle, neon, linger
Maggie Grace has been added to the Lost cast. Who is she? Anybody? Bueller?
LOTRips
DM & BB
Everyone is a Frustrated Something
Dom’s pen frantically scrapes across the glossy pages of the magazine as though it might catch on fire if he can’t get his thoughts out fast enough. His journal is in his rucksack, at his feet, but he can’t be arsed to bend over and look for it, so instead he keeps scrawling all over the advert in the magazine with his blue Sharpie.
The pages crackle as he flips them over and over, looking for more space in which to pour out his thoughts. A momentary lapse of concentration and his ideas could be gone for good, but he lingers momentarily over an advert for Tanqueray and another for a Mini Cooper before getting back into the flow.
In Dominic’s mind he can solve world hunger and bring peace to nations. A flick of his wrist will save the forests. His words can slay wardrobe and make-up girls with a single joke, and his pen can right all the wrongs and say all the things that refuse to come out at the right time for the right people. When Dom’s writing, all his frustrations can be slayed with the tip of a ballpoint pen.
“Are you writing dirty limericks in magazines again?”
Even as the smile plasters itself on his face, Dom’s arm covers up the words on the page. “What d’you want, hobbit?” he attempts Bean’s Sheffield brogue and winds up sounding like he took a wrong turn in Liverpool.
Billy’s lips twitch in amusement. “Not bad –- you don’t sound so much like Michael Owen anymore.”
“Oi!”
This time Billy can’t help laughing. “So, what’re you doing, then?” he asks, sitting down across from Dom and attempting to get a look under Dom’s arm.
“I’m writing the greatest story ever told,” Dom declares, dragging the magazine across the table with his elbow.
Billy smirks. “I thought Winnie the Pooh’d already been written.”
Dom only throws his pen at Billy because he knows his moment is gone, which always tends to be the problem with writing: once it’s done; it’s done.
Dom has so much potential. He could be anything he wants to be. He could be a journalist or an environmentalist or one of those blokes who spends his life collecting stamps. He could if he were ‘independently wealthy’ at any rate, but he’d probably be horribly insufferable if he were that rich, and Dom doesn’t necessarily need to have five flash cars. One will suit him just fine. And season passes to Old Trafford, too. And he needs to be famous. Or he needs to put on more sun lotion.
It’s a bit hard for him to figure out quite what he needs or who he could be with the sun beating down on the nape of his neck and the sweat plastering his shirt to his back.
He shifts his left leg in the lotus and goes back to waiting. It could happen any minute now, and he’d be loathe to miss it after waiting all afternoon. He’s only been watching for four hours; that’s nothing. Of course, most people would spend their day off sleeping, but Dom’s not most people otherwise he’d miss the soft footfalls that announce the pending arrival.
“Your neck’s gone all red.” Billy’s voice is better than balm, and Dom blinks behind his sunglasses and sees neon spots. He shoves over a bit when Billy drops down in the grass next to him.
Out the corner of his eye, Dom studies Billy’s profile. The sun overhead makes his hair absurdly blonde, and his eyelashes are spiders crawling over his cheeks.
“So -- what’re we doing?” Billy asks after several seconds have passed.
Dom turns back to the deserted road a dozen metres from the grass. “Counting blue cars.”
Billy’s silence says it all.
“It’s supposed to be a soothing exercise,” Dom explains. “You free your mind by focusing on other things.”
Billy makes a noncommittal noise. “How many have you seen then?”
“Two.”
Dom squints. There’s something in the distance.
“Two,” Billy repeats. “How long have you been at it?”
“Four hours.”
“Four hours, Dom?” The tone of Billy’s voice says it all, and Dom pushes him over before the obvious comments can be made. Billy’s laughter only serves to goad Dom into action, and he springs onto Billy like a sugar-addled five-year-old.
Billy’s terribly ticklish, and Dom can’t help but take advantage.
“I expect it works better if you’re not on location on in the middle of New Zealand,” Billy gasps out as Dom’s fingers poke and prod and seek out the sensitive spots.
“Shut it, smart arse,” Dom says petulantly.
“Maybe you should try sheep instead.”
In Dom’s brain, his actions make the sort of sense that most people don’t understand. Not that he minds that much, after all, it is his brain. His very drunken brain. It’s not every day that he thinks his brain is being pickled by the fumes coming from his liver. Or something. It’s all connected on the inside. Like everything on Earth is all connected together in that lovely way. It’s nature is what it is, and Dom’s going to tell Billy so right now. As soon as he can focus his vision.
It’s a long walk back from the pub.
“Dom, why are you cuddling the tree?”
“Because trees are our friends.”
Billy’s voice is very soothing in Dom’s ear as he attempts to unwrap him from the tree. “Are they now?”
“Course they are. Trees and people should be best mates. Like you and me. Like Sean and Elijah. Like… like the King and his sword. People who need people are um, bollocks, what was I saying about trees?”
The shake of Billy’s head says it all. “Environmentalists.”
There are loads of things that Dom’s good at. He’s good at writing in his journal and writing all over his body without the aid of a mirror. He’s quite good at cooking and making those fried onion rings that Billy loves so much. Dom’s a good friend and good son. He’s not a half bad actor, if Patricia and Fran are to be believed, and he makes a point of trying to give his attention to whatever he’s doing at the time. But these are things that Dom’s just good at.
There’s nothing he can do the way Billy can sing.
Billy’s voice fills the sitting room whilst Dom prepares fish and chips in the kitchen, and the deep, richness of the lyrics seeps into the kitchen where Dom’s not paying attention to the hot oil on the stove. Billy’s voice is beautiful and heart-breaking, and Dom wants to write in his journal about it. He wants to bottle how it makes him feel and keep it on the end table next to his bed for when everything’s gone pear-shaped.
Dom never wants Billy to stop singing.
Dom wants –- a lot of things, and the frustration that’s been building for as long as Dom can remember causes him to drop things all over the floor, and he's on his knees wiping up the flour when Billy comes in.
“You alright down there?” he asks.
“Just looking for the rest of my brain,” Dom says.
Billy’s crouching down to eye level while Dom’s still filtering out the last of the music in his head, and the greenness of Billy’s eyes makes Dom think of algae and moss and all sorts of nature-related things.
“You’re never going to stop singing, are you?” Dom asks.
“I didn’t think it was that bad.” Billy’s smile is alive and dangerous, and Dom wants to touch it. He wants to protect it and put it in its own ecosystem.
“No, I meant promise me you won’t stop singing?” Dom’s hands are coated with flour and all he wants to do is trace Billy’s mouth. He wants to write all over Billy’s body in black Sharpie. “There are all these things I can’t do. But you, Bills, you’ve got this thing, you shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
Billy’s smile falters when he realises how serious Dom is, and the confusion that flitters across his face makes Dom’s stomach hurt. “What’re you on about, Dom?”
“You sing, and when you sing it’s like everything I can’t do or save or write down doesn’t matter, because you’ve got this voice... and I’ve completely lost the plot. Sorry about that.”
Dom scrambles to his feet leaving Billy still crouching on the floor.
“Do you want to sing?” Billy asks looking up.
“Yes. No. I can,” Dom says. “Sort of. I just. It’s frustrating – everything is frustrating. Writing. Yoga. Inner peace and all that shite. Wanting you. It’s all frustrating.”
“Wanting me is frustrating,” Billy says, getting to his feet. “Why? It doesn’t have to be.”
And there are these explanations that Dom has and things he wants to say, but they all slip away when Billy’s fingers hook into his belt loops and pull him forward. Billy’s lips are dry, but his mouth is wet and hot, and kissing Billy is like a million blue cars racing by and the perfect journal entry where Dom doesn’t forget anything at all.
Everything seeps away when confronted with sharp teeth and digging fingernails and probing tongues, and when Billy pulls away Dom’s mouth clamps shut as though he’s run out of things he’ll ever want.
“Less frustrated now?" Billy asks. All Dom can do is nod.
Finally there’s something that comes easily enough.
-end-
Improv: onion, batter, blank, crackle, neon, linger
Maggie Grace has been added to the Lost cast. Who is she? Anybody? Bueller?
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